


Stiles Has So Many Feels

by rachelrose



Series: The Trials and Hardships of a Sarcastic Gay Teenage Emissary [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: All-Knowing Deaton, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Humor, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Cora is also sassy, Dark Comedy, Derek Feels, Derek Uses His Words, Derek is a Failwolf, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Humor, Hurt Stiles, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Isaac is pretty sassy too, M/M, Magic!Stiles, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Mama Stilinski Feels, Masturbation, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Oblivious Scott, POV Third Person, Pack Dynamics, Pack Feels, Porn With Plot, Protective Derek, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sassy Peter, Scents & Smells, Scott is a Bad Friend, Sex Talk, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Sexy Times, Sheriff Stilinski Feels, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Sheriff Stilinski is a Good Dad, Slash, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, Stilinski Family Feels, Teasing, Top Derek Hale, Wolf Pack, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2013-08-26
Packaged: 2017-12-23 02:45:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/921079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachelrose/pseuds/rachelrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles hops in his Jeep and sighs into the steering wheel as he turns the ignition. Phew. He (mostly) escaped the awkward conversation this morning over breakfast with his father - you know, the obligatory conversation every teenage boy has with their father at some point in their youth: <i>So yeah, I fucked a studly twenty-something last night in my twin-sized bed on top of my Star Wars comforter, and we didn't use any protection. Oh, and did I mention he's a werewolf - one who's been accused of murder more than once? Yup! You guessed it, dad. I fucked <b>Derek Hale.</b></i></p><p>Or the one where Stiles has to deal with his feelings for Derek and awkward post-sex interactions. Stiles has a falling out with his father, Scott is kind of an asshole, Deaton is a cool dude, Stiles has a mental breakdown, and Derek learns to use his words.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stiles Is Hiding Something

**Author's Note:**

> So this is only my second work, expanding on my first (which was intended to be a one-shot porn piece, but oh well). It would be wise to read the first part before this one - its title is the same as that of the entire series. It sets up the setting nicely and helps with the continuity in this piece. As dark as the content may be, I tried to make it equally as funny - I was aiming for a good balance between the two. I really appreciate comments/kudos/messages, whether they be compliments or critiques. I'm always looking to improve.
> 
>  **I am hereby announcing a trigger warning that will apply to chapter 5.** The most I will say - so as to not spoil the tiny bit of plot that I have worked in there - is that it alludes to self-harm. I tried to keep away from graphic imagery as best as I could, only using descriptive means in a few sentences to keep the reader in the loop. Please let me know if you have any comments/concerns on the matter and I will try to rectify the problem. I realize that this can be a painful subject to a lot of people, including myself, so **I do** take it very seriously.
> 
> I'm not going to bother with chapter summaries, because the titles are pretty self-explanatory.
> 
> Also, I apologize in advance for my overly gratuitous use of Italics (sorrynotsorry). Sue me.

Stiles hops in his Jeep and sighs into the steering wheel as he turns the ignition. _Phew._ He (mostly) escaped the awkward conversation this morning over breakfast with his father - you know, the obligatory conversation every teenage boy has with their father at some point in their youth: _So yeah, I fucked a studly twenty-something last night in my twin-sized bed on top of my Star Wars comforter, and we didn't use any protection. Oh, and did I mention he's a werewolf - one who's been accused of murder more than once? Yup! You guessed it, dad. I fucked_ _ **Derek Hale**_ _._

On his way to school, memories flood back into his mind - you know, the little things you don't immediately remember when you first wake up in the morning: the way his muscles tensed and relaxed, the way his ass cheeks fit perfectly in Stiles' cupped hands, the way his eyebrows scrunched up when he was concentrating, the way his scruff felt on the insides of Stiles' thighs, the way he literally _howled_ when he...

Just the thought of being plowed by Derek is enough to almost make Stiles come in his pants - _almost._ Stiles thinks about his training with Deaton and the meditative breathing he taught him, which is enough to calm Stiles down. His erection is still nice and prominent against the steering wheel, slightly tenting his khakis and bobbing along with the rumble of the shoddy Jeep. Stiles would have relieved himself, had he brought another pair of pants to school.

 

* * *

 

Stiles' day is mostly uneventful. He fails a chemistry test (even without Harris, Stiles still apparently sucks in that subject) and give a rather brilliant off-the-cuff answer to his English teacher, who questions him about the previous night's reading - which he neglected to do. It's sparked by his lack of attention in English when he gets a text from Derek's contact (“Sourwolf”) saying, “Sorry I left so early last night. Didn't want your dad to catch us. I'll be back again soon - we need to talk.”

Stiles grins wildly and sends a quick reply. “Looking forward to it.(;”

“Mr. Stilinski!” Stiles shoots his head up. It's the teacher yelling at him for not paying attention, with every other eye in the room centered on him. This new teacher, the replacement for the darach-slash-Julia-slash-psycho-bitch, is actually less tolerable than 'Ms. Blake.' He has an ego so large that it probably has its own gravitational pull (Stiles wouldn't know - he's never been close enough to tell for sure). It's funny that most of the students think he's so cool and interesting, but he's kind of just an ass. _If you're so god damn intelligent, maybe you should teach something a bit more demanding than a high-school level English class._

“Huh?”

“I asked, what did you make of the reading from _The Stranger_ last night?”

_Come on, Stiles. Say something witty. Say something that the token free-thinker in an 80's movie would say. Make it sound well thought-out. Big words, Stiles. Use your bottomless vocabulary._ “Personally, and don't take this the wrong way, I _can't stand_ the way the book is written. I mean, yeah, I think Camus has it right about existentialism and humanism and whatnot. He's a...smart dude... But like, we get it: Meursault has no depth in his thought, and Camus tries to show us that through a purely observational narrative. I know the lack of depth is supposed to make it all seem that much more profound, but _damn..._ ” He clears his throat. “I-I mean, it's a little gratuitous, if you ask me.”

Pure silence: that is all that can be heard in the classroom. Several of the students' mouths hang agape, some looking unimpressed, some sleeping. The look on the teacher's face is priceless beyond any measure, though: a mixture between fury, annoyance, disgust, and defeat. Gotta give it to the guy, though - that many expressions in one face is pretty hard to execute. “I can respect that opinion, so long as you have a detailed two-page essay on my desk by tomorrow expanding on that subject.” Stiles smirks sarcastically at the guy. “That goes for all of you. If you don't like it, I want to know why. If you can back it up, I won't make you read it.” What's funny is that Stiles only read three pages of the book during lunch yesterday, and he could pull that out of his ass.

_Damn_ , Stiles' ass hurts...

At lunch time, Stiles tries to scribble out the two-page essay on notebook paper while the thoughts are still in his head and the Adderall from this morning is still in his system. He's at the table first, shoving a granola bar in his mouth to sate the twinge of hunger that's been biting at him since he woke up.

The table soon fills up with the faces of Scott, Allison, Isaac, Lydia, Danny, and Ethan. Ethan hung around after the whole scrap with the Alpha pack. He's not a bad guy - hell, he risked his status and his relationship with his brother to stay and be with Danny. Ethan wasn't in Derek's pack, but he was a close ally, which added a lot of security to the pack's dynamic.

“Stiles..... _helloooooooo,_ ” Scott coos while thumping a pencil against Stiles' temple. “Anybody in there?”

“Come on, dude. Chill.”

“What's up with you? Your heart beat's all erratic and you smell like balls, dude.”

“Erratic...that's a pretty big word for you. Kudos.”

“Yeah, Allison's been tutoring me.” Scott's face lights up in excitement from being able to use his new word. His face quickly shifts and the smile is wiped off his face. “But dude, you didn't answer my question.”

“Nothing. I overslept and didn't get to shower this morning, and ended up taking my Adderall halfway through second period because I forgot to when I woke up, okay?”

“Yeah, that explains pretty much everything except for the nasty bruise on your neck.” Stiles' heart leaps. His face turns a splotchy red and he freezes. He realizes how suspicious he must look. He rolls his eyes and shakes his head, but before he can get out a response, Scott adds, “Are you getting beat up again? Because I'll kick their ass, dude. You know I will.”

“I...okay, I'll confess. I was trying to be all cool tossing a ball around in my room with the lacrosse stick, and I ended up thwacking myself in the collarbone with the stick. Is that a good enough explanation for you, or would you like me to go more in depth?” _Catastrophe successfully averted._

Isaac interjects. “Wait, one question - _please_ tell me you were dressed when you were 'tossing the ball around.'”

Stiles laughs sarcastically at him and the rest of the group as they all erupt with laughter. “Really funny, guys. Stiles, the fragile human bag of bones, whose number one enemy is himself.” No one can tell if he's trying to be funny or is genuinely upset. Stiles just returns to his essay and prays that the end of the day will come quickly, so he can go home and nap and ice his battle wounds - namely, his asshole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to make clear that I am actually a huge fan of Camus and his works, my all-time favorite being _L'Etranger_. I thought it would be best to talk about a book I know well enough that I can argue both its relevance and its nauseatingly trite structure.
> 
> The English teacher actually refers to one I had in high school. The guy was brilliant and interesting, and I could listen to him talk for hours on end, but he was just so egotistical and pompous that trying to express my opinions to him in a verbal debate made me sick. He refused to acknowledge intelligence in anyone but himself.
> 
> Please leave comments/kudos! Thank you for reading!


	2. Stiles Keeps His Secret

All day, the memories of the previous night hit Stiles in waves - more specifically, waves of arousal. He remembers every little detail in depth and can't help but get a hard on at every single memory. So, naturally, Stiles comes home from school and masturbates to images of Derek, several times. _I am so going to hell for this..._ He imagines Derek's face in his lap, his dazzling eyes darting up to meet Stiles'. He imagines Derek's hands running along his sides. He imagines Derek biting down on his neck, leaving a small sting behind as a memento - a reminder of the night they shared together.

Oh, and yup - that's enough to make Stiles come.

He comes down from his high and straightens himself up - carefully putting away his handy-dandy lube and changing out of his sweaty clothes. He moves to sit at his laptop, hoping to translate some more of the reading Deaton gave him, but he just can not focus. Images flood back in and Stiles wills them away. He goes downstairs for a coke and a sandwich, finishing both before he reaches his room. He sits back in front of the laptop and thinks, _what the hell was I even doing?_ He closes the laptop and sits, letting one single droplet through the flood gate of memories. He imagines one last moment - the most vivid and erotic memory of the night - the moment when he felt so incredibly stimulated, with Derek filling his ass and working his dick simultaneously. He saw fireworks.

Aaaaaand that's enough to make Stiles come again.

 

* * *

 

Stiles has dinner with his father tonight, then plans to go have a training session with Deaton. When he hears the squad car pull into the driveway, he looks out the window and sees his father carrying a large brown paper bag with a receipt stapled to it. _CHINESE!  
_

Stiles blunders down the stairs as his father enters the front door, giving him a suspicious look. “I'm starving.”

“I'm sure you would have survived.”

“Nope. No way. I was writing my will before you showed up.”

His dad chuckles and goes into the kitchen, setting out on the counter the food he brought home. He grabs a plate for himself and sits at his usual place at the table. Stiles follows, making his own plate, and sits opposite his father. “Son, would you like to tell me what happened at school today?”

“Which part?”

“I got a call today from your guidance counselor. She said that you're failing Chemistry and have a D in English. Explain.”

“What do you want me to say?” He blurts out with a mouthful of Pork Lo Mein. He shakes his head. “I suck at Chem and the English teacher hates me.”

“Why is the excuse always that the teacher hates you?”

“Because, dad, it's always true.”

“Stiles, you're grounded.” Stiles whimpers, protesting, stamping his feet. “Until you get your grades up, there's no TV, no video games, and no social life.”

“Uh, I have to help Deaton close tonight after dinner. I promised.”

“Fine. But you tell him no more late nights for at least another week or two.” His father runs his hand over his face, then slams it down on the table. “Stiles, I don't think you realize how serious this is.”

“You're right, dad, I don't. They're just grades. Grades from overly biased teachers with god complexes. You know I'm not a stupid kid, dad.”

“I know that, son. So what is it? Are your friends distracting you? Is it sports?”

“My friends barely have any time for me, and the lacrosse season is over.”

“So what is it?”

Stiles stands up and mumbles, “I'm not that hungry anymore.” He grabs his keys off the counter and his backpack off of the couch and storms out the front door. All the while, the sound of his father shouting after him - both out of anger and concern - ringing through his ears. He turns the ignition and pulls out of the driveway, hoping the cool of the evening and the soundless stir of the trees may calm his anxious mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right in the feels. :(


	3. Stiles Talks Hypothetically

Stiles meets Deaton by the underground roots of the Nematon. He's already set up a blanket to sit on and a few unscented beeswax candles for both light and 'energy.' He sits on one side of the blanket, legs and hands folded, patiently awaiting Stiles' arrival. When Stiles reaches the foot of the stairs, he's met with a welcoming and warm smile. _Ahh, Deaton, you wonderful bastard._

“Stiles, I was just starting to get worried. Sit, I have a crucial lesson planned for you this week.” He motions to the unoccupied space across from him. Stiles obeys him wordlessly, taking a seat across from him and sighing. “What's wrong?”

“Huh?”

“Your mind is troubled, I can tell. The energy in the room just shifted dramatically from comfortable to tense.” Stiles sighs and rolls his eyes. “So, may I help?” He takes Stiles' hands in his own, the way they do when they meditate. It's a kind and intimate gesture, but neither ever thinks anything of it. Stiles closes his eyes. “Why don't you tell me what's really on your mind? And can we skip the sarcasm, please?”

Stiles shakes his head. “How the hell can you even tell? Whatever.” He rubs his face hard with both hands. “It's... _complicated.”_

“If you haven't noticed by now, Stiles, I'm more than capable at handling 'complicated.' And so are you. So whatever is troubling you must be very heavy to be weighing you down with such force. I think you'll find by sharing with a third party, the pressure will be eased quite dramatically.”

He exhales hard. “Okay. Sure. Fine.” He pauses. Deaton goes to say something, but Stiles stops him. “It's just... okay. So, I have this friend...” Deaton raises an eyebrow. “Hell, who am I kidding? It's me. I may have... _hypothetically_ gotten myself in too deep with a person, whmo I will not name.” Deaton raises both hands as if to say ' _I'm-not-accusing-you-of-anything.'_ “They're like absolutely perfect. They make me feel fantastic and leave a sort of brilliantly blazing _afterburn..._ whatever. T-M-I. I'm starting to sink with my schoolwork and got into a fight with my dad about why I'm so inadequate and I just... It's not like I can talk to, you know, Scott about any of this.”  
  
“And why is that?

“Because he's all 'True Alpha' now and has werewolf friends and a girlfriend. And then there's just me - stupid, fragile, good-for-almost-nothing me.”

“Stiles, I think we've established by now that you're more than useful to the pack. I will not stand by while you stomp all over your self esteem like it's a bug.” Deaton gives Stiles a glowing, sincere smile. “So tell me more about this person, the one that gives you butterflies.”

 _More like the one that gives me an everlasting hard-on._ “H... _they_ are like straight out of my wildest dreams. We have perfectly opposing personalities. Polar opposites about everything. And they're like, basically a sex god, and I can't stop thinking about them.”

“Stiles, you know you can say _he,_ right? I won't judge you.”

“Fine, _he. He_ is like a sex god. _He_ is the sexiest person I've ever seen. _He_ is everything I hate and everything I could ever want. And I can't get _him_ out of my mind.”

“This has nothing to do with Scott, does it?”

“Oh....oh _god no._ Ewh - I can't.... _blech. Scott?_ A _sex god?_ ” He shudders at the thought.

“I don't know, Stiles. There's a lot you wouldn't know about a person until you've been in bed with them.”

“Words of wisdom about sex, from Deaton, the mysterious veterinarian-slash-druid.”

Deaton laughs like Stiles has never seen before. He's letting loose, his laughter sounding jolly and hearty. “I'm not Gandhi, Stiles, as much as you all would like to think.” Stiles gasps sarcastically, his eyes wide, and he slaps both hands to his cheeks. “In all seriousness, I have a few questions - number one, have you told Scott that you're gay?”

“I'm _not_ gay. I'm....just.... _not._ And I don't think I'm bisexual either.”

“Okay, so have you told Scott that you're pansexual?”

“Pan...wha?”

“Pansexual. Meaning you can be pretty much attracted to anyone, regardless of their gender, race, or otherwise. Do you understand?”  
  
“Yeah, I get it. Pansexual. And no, I haven't.”

“Maybe you should. And I'm guessing you haven't told your father either?”

“I...I tried once. He didn't believe me.”

“Try this: sit him down in a quiet setting, with just the two of you in your home. Preface the conversation by saying that you are completely serious and are only looking for his support. Then explain to him what you feel. Simple as that. It all has to do with the setting and the feel of the situation.”

“Are you sure you're not Gandhi?” Deaton laughs again. “I'll definitely do that. Hang on.”

He pulls his notebook from his bag and scribbles that all down, asking again the definition of pansexual. Deaton repeats himself slowly, then adds, “Just tell him what you feel. He's your father - he's been there with you for some of your purest and more genuine moments of feeling in your life. If you are one-hundred percent honest, and try to convey sincerity, he will undoubtedly believe you.” Deaton smiles. “And if he says he doesn't, he's lying. Let him process all of it; you can't expect him to accept something so big in so little time.”

“So... any advice on how I should talk to Scott about it?”

“Honestly, I'd say the same thing. It's prudent that you get Scott alone, away from Allison and the rest of the pack, and in a private setting, like your bedroom. Scott has been there for you since when, kindergarten? He's been there for you for all of the genuine moments your father hasn't witnessed, so you can count on him to believe you too. Scott may not understand immediately. Don't expect him to - he may take longer than your father.” Stiles scribbles it all down and shoves the notebook aside. He folds his hands on his lap. “Now, I sense there's something about this man that is keeping you from wanting to share your relationship - something more difficult to grasp than his gender.”

“I don't know if I'm ready to share that just yet.”

“You can tell me when you're ready. Or, you don't have to tell me at all. Whichever is fine by me.”

“Thanks, Doc. You're the best.”

He laughs. “You're very welcome, Stiles. Now, I'd say 'let's get to work,' but I think you've tapped into your emotions enough this week.” Deaton turns around and pulls a bundle from his laptop bag and unwraps it. It's a thick, dark brown, leather-bound book with a symbol of a tree emblazoned in to the cover in a jade green color. “I want to give you this. Have you heard of the term Grimoire?”

Stiles nods. “Isn't it like an Encyclopedia for witches?”

“Not quite. It's their life's work - they detail every encounter they've had with the supernatural and chronicle everything they've learned about being a witch that is important to them. They write in the spells they've written and the potion recipes they've discovered, all for future reference.”

“So this - what you're giving me - is a Grimoire?”

“It's an idea that came to me that I think will help you. You handle situations best with reason and by being able to see the whole board - I think writing everything you learn down will help clear up some of your brain fog, while also helping you to remember small things you've forgotten. It's meant to be sort of like the remember-all from _Harry Potter.” He. Did. Not._ “But that's not all it's meant for. I want you to be able to look back on everything you've learned. I want it to be a reminder of fond memories and every trial you've endured. It doesn't all have to be related to the supernatural. You can write in here of love and loss, of grief and triumph.You can show this to your children or your grandchildren or let your father read through it to help him understand about the supernatural world, whenever you decide it best to introduce him.” _Nobody has every done anything like this for me._ “This book is to a druid as a Grimoire is to a witch. Do you understand?”

Of course, everything Stiles says lacks sincerity and has a sarcastic tone. “Underneath the structure of an SAT question, yeah, I think I get what you're saying. You want me to write what I learn in here so I can look back on it in the future. Just like taking notes so you can study for a test.”

“Precisely.” He hands the book to Stiles, and it feels like lead in his hands. “I had it custom made by a crone - blessed with moon water and bound by hand. I told her of your personality and your spark, and she constructed each element with you in mind. The etching of the tree inscribed on the front is to symbolize your innate sense of good and evil, and your gift of common sense. Both of which you have more of than anyone - druid, witch, human, or werewolf - that I've ever met.” Tears well up in Stiles' eyes. It's such a personal and intimate sentiment. “You're blossoming more and more each day, and I don't want you to think your progress goes unnoticed. Take good care of it, and I think this will prove to be your greatest asset and defense in the future.”

“No more spiral-bound notebooks.” Deaton nods with a smile. “This...this is beautiful. Th-thank you.” Aaaaaaaand the dam that's been holding up so long in Stiles' eyelids bursts. Stiles just stares down at the book, and a tear falls into his lap. Deaton rests a hand on Stiles' forearm, but says nothing. It's comforting how Deaton knows exactly how to console Stiles. Stiles opens the front cover of the book, and on the first page, etched in deep red ink, he reads:

 

* * *

 

“It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”

\- Albus Dumbledore

 

* * *

 

“All I can say is - _th...thank you._ ”

“Contrary to what you may believe true, Stiles, you deserve it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I couldn't wait to post another chapter, so I got impatient and decided to update.
> 
> I tried to capture the essence of Deaton's character and his importance as a foil to the individual characters in the show - namely, Stiles, ultimately highlighting their bond. Deaton is like the cool uncle, if you will. I think they'd do well in the show to write more scenes for the two, because I think it'd help develop their characters on a completely different level.
> 
> The irony in this chapter is that Stiles doesn't believe anyone can help him - which is why he refuses to see a therapist - but ends up seeking solace in Deaton. Deaton is essentially meant to portray Stiles' counselor, but also acts as an encouraging force that helps Stiles to believe that all is not lost. I think the dynamic is actually rather beautiful.
> 
> Chapters 4 and 5 are very deep, so I'll definitely space those ones out. I'll probably post 4 on Tuesday and 5 on Friday, or something along those lines. Leave me comments/kudos/whathaveyou to let me know how I'm doing so far! You're input is really appreciated.


	4. Stiles Has So Many Feels

It's nearly midnight when Stiles returns home to find his father sprawled out on the couch in the living room watching the same movie he revisits in times of struggle: _The Jungle Book._  


* * *

 

 _The Jungle Book_ is one of few memories Stiles has that ties the family together in a neat little bow. You know how every little kid has that one movie or TV show that can occupy them for hours on repeat? The one that can miraculously console them more than any other? Well, Stiles' was _The Jungle Book._ His parents could play it over and over for hours on end and he would watch intently, every time. He'd sing along to every song, and the only time he needed attention was during the span of time it took to rewind the VHS tape. Naturally, Stiles grew old of the movie, finding other new fascinations to occupy his time, like _Star Wars,_ _Spongebob_ , and his all-time biggest guilty pleasure: _Full House._

When Stiles was around five or six years-old and his parents rediscovered their VHS collection, they decided to start a tradition. They decided that on Tuesday nights (one of the few nights a week the Sheriff had off), they would move dinner into the living room to watch one of the VHS tapes in their collection. Most often, Stiles preferred to watch _The Jungle Book._ So they did. The tradition turned into something they mainly did to cheer up. They watched it when Stiles' first dog died, when his parents would get into an argument, and when Stiles' first crush rejected him (he was in first grade, but still). He and his father watched it without his mother for the first time when they were notified that she had two months to live. They watched it the afternoon that she died. They even shared the tradition with their loved ones at the gathering after the funeral.

 

* * *

 

But Stiles hasn't seen his father pull the movie out in six or seven years.

The sound of the front door creaking shut rips his father out of his daze. He mumbles in his disgruntled state, rolling to face Stiles. He motions for his son to come sit, with a beer bottle in one hand. Stiles follows his orders and sits on the armchair adjacent to where his father lounges on the couch. He can see a pillow where his father rested his head, probably for hours. Next to the head of the couch on the floor sits three more empty bottles.

“Dad, why are you still up? And why are you watching -” Stiles' throat constricts, the way it always does right before a panic attack.

“I waited for you to get home. Do you have any idea what time it is?” Stiles goes to reply, but is interrupted. “Rhetorical question. Do you know what time curfew is in Beacon Hills?” He massages his temples. “You can answer that one.”

“Eleven. But -”

“No 'but,' son. You know, I'm pretty lenient with you. I only ask that you follow a few basic rules, but lately, you just do whatever you want anyway.”

“I wasn't - I'm sorry.”

“Is that it? ' _I'm sorry_ '? Geez, Stiles, for once in your life, I'm _asking_ you to give me _something._ _Anything_ to go on - just so that I know you're alright.”

“D-Dad...I'm fine. I'm fine, alright?” He exhales hard, trying to will away the knot in his throat that constricts more and more with every word he says. “I'm sorry I was late, Dad, and I'm sorry I kept you up waiting for me. And - I'm s-sorry you felt the need to break out the movie because of me.” He falls apart. A puddle of mush at his father's feet.

“Why can't you tell me what's going on with you? You know, you used to be able to tell me everything.”

Stiles inhales and exhales deeply and slowly. Tears run down his face, and in a calm , slightly muffled tone, he replies, “You're all I have left. And I-I don't want to ruin what we have too.”

Stiles wipes his face and drops his bag on the steps, then shuffles into the kitchen for a bottle of water. From the living room, his father calls to him, “I want to put you back in therapy.” He follows Stiles into the kitchen with the empty bottles in hand. He tosses them into the recycling bin and pours himself a glass of milk from the fridge, all the while saying, “And I don't have to you know, go in with you this time. It'll just be about you.” Stiles moves to leave the room, but his father puts a hard grip on his shoulder. “I think it could help. Because, to be honest, kid - I don't know what else to do with you.” He lets go when he knows Stiles won't storm out. He shrugs and massages his brow. He's trying, really.

Without turning to face his father, his arms drop to his sides and his muscles relax. He grits his teeth and mutters, “I can manage on my own.” He storms out, much to his father's dismay, who is now calling after him. Stiles just gathers his bag and takes the stairs up to his room and slams the door. He knows his father won't come in. He knows his father won't try to figure him out, as much as he'd like to, because even if he did intrude, he'd have no idea what to say.

Stiles leans against the door and melts into a sitting position on the floor, listening intently to the pattering of his father's feet as they bustle around downstairs, locking up the house for the night. As he listens, he finds himself staring out the window into the night sky. There isn't a single visible star in his field of vision. _Ah, the beauty that is light pollution._ He stands up and strips himself naked, putting on sweatpants and a plain black tee shirt.

 

* * *

 

Stiles can feel every wall he's ever built breaking down, each brick made up of second-rate composure, false pretenses, and a nearly bereft sense of self-worth, blended together and stacked tall to make himself feel secure and intact.

He can feel himself slowly becoming more and more secluded from the people he once thought were his closest friends. Sure, they're still there, but pay no mind to Stiles' existence. He's become a fly on the wall, a bystander, if you will. And to think Stiles used to be the one with the plan. He used to be the one they all looked to for advice in both their human lives and their supernatural lives. He used to joke about being useless, but now he truly feels that way. He follows the currents and the tides, pushing his own thoughts and plans back into his mind, silencing the part of him that once held worth. And he's not sure why. One would think that a battle such as the one with the Alpha Pack and the Darach would bring a group of allies closer, but Stiles secretly wonders if the reason they're growing apart is because there's nothing left to fight. There's no imminent threat making them fight for survival. No oncoming storm to plan for. No dire situation or ticking time-bomb forcing them all to put their heads together to save whatever it is that's being threatened. And Stiles hates himself for wishing back the tragedy. He hates himself for hoping a reason arises so the others might listen to his ingenious plans. He hates himself for wanting his friends back in the most awful and disturbing way he could imagine - how could he be so selfish?

The actions that follow lie murky in Stiles' memory. All he knows is that he broke down, shedding more and more of the coats of paint he's used to mask himself over the years. What he does recollect in his memory doesn't feel like an experience, more like the retelling of a story in which he didn't partake. He doesn't know exactly what happened, just that he was able to make the ubiquitous voice inside his head stop yelling for just a moment and make the pain that bled in his heart lessen. The constant white noise could not be silenced, but instead of making Stiles' head spin, it was eventually the sound that lulled him to sleep. And that night, with every heavy emotion that had been added to the thickness of the fog that loomed over Stiles' head, drifting off into an inevitably dreamless sleep was the most blissful silence he'd ever felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE FEELS. ALL OF THE FEELS.
> 
> I'm evil - I'm sorry.  
> (not sorry.)
> 
>  _The Jungle Book_ was my movie growing up. I wanted to write about something I could put emotion into, so I chose something I know quite well. 
> 
> I know in this chapter it may seem like I'm making Stiles' father out to be the bad guy, but that's the exact opposite intention. Think of it this way: his father wouldn't struggle so much had he not cared deeply about his son. He wallows on the couch with his booze and his Disney movie and confronts Stiles _because_ he cares. 
> 
> I think you'll find that the rest of the story will help to balance out the darkness very well. At least, that's the intent. What do you guys think so far?


	5. Stiles Falls Apart At The Seams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *** TRIGGER WARNING: **non-graphic depictions of Self-Harm/Self-injury** ***

The feeling Stiles experiences when he first wakes up is synonymous to that of a hangover. He lies with his eyes closed, clinging his teddy bear to his chest for what could have been minutes or hours before deciding to rise to meet the day's challenges. He feels a pressure in his face, alluding to the fact that he'd been crying the night before. It's the feeling of having fallen apart. It's the dry, stinging feeling his eyes that says that he has no tears left. It's the constricting feeling in the back of his throat that tells him of the innumerable times he'd choked on his own sobs. It's the weakness in his muscles and the rattling in his bones that unmistakably indicates just how easily he let himself completely unravel, falling apart at the seams.

Stiles is bombarded with feelings of hunger, even with the incessant knot in his stomach, shakiness, and a pounding in his head. He rolls over and fumbles for his phone, reading the time: _2:30pm_. There are two missed calls from his father, presumably to make sure he's not dead. When he rolls out of bed into a sitting position, his eyes are met with a very intrusive sight. Across the room, propped up against the wall next to his desk, is a sleeping Derek in all his glory.

So, how might Stiles decide to approach this? Might he go gently nuzzle him awake? Might he throw a blanket over him and wait downstairs until he wakes up? Nope - of course not. Stiles pegs his teddy bear at his head.

Derek's reaction is priceless. He bolts upright, tensing every muscle in his body, claws coming out and eyes glowing red. His eyes dart around the room, but finally rest on the teddy bear sprawled out on his lap. “What the fuck, Stiles?”

He's fuming. Stiles is hysterical. “You're asking _me_ that question? You're the one who snuck into my room in the middle of the night. This is - you're like, developing another idiosyncrasy to add to your dark-esoteric-sexy-tight-pants-broody-leather-werewolf person, and it's kind of creepy.”

Derek tosses the bear back onto the bed playfully, then retorts, “You know, actually, I came over at 11 this morning.”

“Middle of the night. Case closed.” Derek shoots him a snarky and sarcastic smirk. “What do you want?”

Derek stands up to sit next to Stiles on the bed, but he meets him halfway. They stand face-to-face and Derek grabs both of Stiles' hands. “Retract the claws, big guy.” Stiles rips his hands away and folds his arms, sticking out his lower lip, pouting jokingly. “I came with the intention of talking about the other night, since, you know, we didn't get to.”

“Well, I mean -”

Derek interjects, his tone now stern, his lips clenching into a thin frown. He's holding back. “I said that was what I came for.” He sighs and runs his hands down hard over his face. “I didn't say why I decided to stay.”

“Why did you, then?” Stiles looks confused.

“I could smell blood from your front yard. _Your_ blood. I opened the window and the scent flooded my nose. It was overwhelming. It was the blood soaked tissues in your trash can.” Derek points in the direction of Stiles' wastebasket, which sits under his desk across the room. “And now that I'm standing here, so close to you, I can clearly smell blood coming from you as well.”

Stiles smirks and stares down at his feet. “Sorry Derek, I have my period.”

Derek grabs both of Stiles' biceps, holding him firmly in place, meeting his eyes for several seconds. He searches his expression, waiting for a real explanation. After what feels like minutes of silence, Derek grits his teeth and snarls, “ _Stiles._ ”

Something - a fuzzy, short-lived image - flashes in Stiles' mind. _The pocketknife. The pocketknife in my hand, hacking at my skin. The dampened paper towel in my other hand, irritating the wounds by wiping away the blood repeatedly._ “I...I don't - I don't know w-what happened. I just wanted to make it _stop_. I w... I needed to calm the stupid thoughts for one _god damn second_ so I could get my head straight, and I guess I just...I just -” Stiles starts to choke on his words. “G- _god_.” The hyperventilating and the blood rushing to his head makes him nearly black out. He sinks into Derek's arms, letting him walk him over to sit on the bed. Derek sits down next to Stiles, grabs Stiles' sleeves, and slowly rolls them up to his elbows. Both of Stiles' forearms are wrapped in blood-soaked gauze. Stiles whimpers, “ _What the hell is that?!”_

Derek scoops him up and carries him down the hallway to the bathroom. He sits him down on the lid of the toilet and starts rifling through the drawers for the first-aid kit. It doesn't take long to find it - in Stiles' daze, he managed to stuff the contents back into the box and put it in the cabinet under the sink, in plain sight. Derek slowly unravels the gauze wrapped around Stiles' forearms, the gauze now stuck to the wounds from the dried blood. He peels away the layers as painlessly as possible. Stiles watches as Derek - on his knees in front of him - very meticulously cleans him up, applies some anti-bacterial ointment, and rewraps both arms in fresh gauze. Derek rises to his feet and hums, bending over to stroke one cheek with his thumb and press his lips to Stiles' forehead.

He helps Stiles to his feet and walks him back to his room, wrapping one of Stiles' arms over his shoulders and holding him close by the waist. He lays Stiles in his bed, then sits on the edge with both feet planted firmly on the ground. His elbows rest on the tops of his knees to hold his head in his hands, while he forcefully massages his temples. “What the _hell_ am I going to do with you?”

“Derek -”

“I _suck_ with words, Stiles. I can't come up with a joke in every situation to make you laugh, and I can't say with your vocabulary what I'm feeling and thinking. I'm not...” He sighs and turns to Stiles. “I'm not good at fixing broken things.”

“Just....just please don't leave. You don't ever have to talk to me again... just st-stay here and h-hold me. Please?”

“I won't leave - I promise.” Derek crawls over to kiss Stiles on the forehead, then lies flat on his back next to him, staring up at the ceiling. “I'll stay until you get sick of me.”

“We're well past that point, Sourwolf.” The two of them laugh, the harmonious sound reverberating off the walls of the bedroom.

“ _That._ That's what I'm talking about. I'm not good at _that._ ”

“Well sometimes, Derek, I don't need to laugh. Sometimes I just need someone to hold me close and tell me everything's going to be okay - to make me forget about my troubles.” He smiles sweetly and kisses Derek on the cheek. “And you, sir, are _very_ capable of those things.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ALL THE FEELS. ALL OF THEM.
> 
> Okay, I've done us all a favor to give our sad little _Teen Wolf_ fangirl hearts a break: prepare yourselves, because there will be pure smut in the next chapter. I'd say it's pretty well-deserved, with all of the heartache this stupid fandom has put everyone through.


	6. Stiles Has It Bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pure smut. Enjoy! ;)

The two lay in Stiles' bed for almost an hour, basking in each other's warmth and savoring the feeling of human/werewolf contact. “Derek,” Stiles draws out the syllables melodically. He lays on his side and uses his free hand to roam Derek's chest. He works his way under Derek's shirt to ever-so-gently graze the bare skin of his torso with his fingertips. “You know what would make me feel better?”  


“I don't think this is the best time for -”

Stiles silences him with a kiss. “It's the perfect time.” He works his left hand down into Derek's lap to tease him, just for good measure.

“I just found you in the midst of a mental breakdown, and you think _now_ is a good time to fuck around?”

“I get it, Derek, you think I'm fucked in the head for being both depressed and horny in one afternoon.” Derek laughs and bites his bottom lip. “My dad's not home. It's a Saturday, and he's working a double shift, so he won't be home for a while.” Derek considers the proposition for only a moment before Stiles is on top of him. “Make me feel better, Derek.” He moves closer and bites down on Derek's earlobe, breathing hot vapor against his skin. “Fuck the sadness out of me.” And that is enough to send Derek sky-high.

Derek flips him over and trails kisses from behind his ear down to his collarbone. “Is that what you want, Stiles?” Derek grinds down hard onto Stiles' growing erection with his own. He gets very close to Stiles' face. “Hmm? You want me to fuck you?”

Stiles arches his back, but Derek pulls away from the contact. Stiles moans, “ _ohmyfuck Derek.”_ He gulps and nods furiously. “Yep. Yes, Derek, that's exactly what I want.”

Derek pins both of Stiles' hands on the bed above his head and says. “I'm not going to fuck you, Stiles.” Stiles is about to protest, but Derek presses a finger to his lips. “I'll make love to you. I'll make mad, passionate love to you, but I won't fuck you. I just can't.”

Stiles laughs, a little too enthusiastically for comfort, and uses his free hand to grab the collar of Derek's tee shirt and pulls him back in. “I'm going to pretend that that wasn't the most cheesy line I've ever heard and believe you're being sincere.” Derek looks slightly defeated, thinking for once he could use his words to express how he truly felt. “It's sweet. Derek, I _want_ you to make love to me.”

Derek's grin grows wide and excited, and before long, he's rutting down into Stiles' lap again. He sits up quickly, leaning back on Stiles' legs, and pulls his shirt off. He leans down and removes Stiles' as well. They kiss, and sparks fly behind Stiles' eyelids. The thought of sex with Derek will never ever cease to baffle him. _Out of a world of people, why me? Why would he pick stupid, awkward, gangly, too-cocky-for-my-own-good me? He must be crazy or have a thing for damaged goods._ Derek is thankful that Stiles wore only sweatpants to bed. He runs a finger just under the waistband of Stiles' pants and Stiles shivers. He puts one hand on Derek's neck to deepen the kiss and the other to rest on his hip. “D- _Der_ -”

At that, Derek stops teasing Stiles' waist and shoves his whole hand into his pants, thanking the gods that Stiles' opted out of wearing underwear to bed. He agonizingly drags two fingertips from the base the the head of Stiles' cock, making him squirm under the touch. He pulls his hand away to pull down the sweatpants, with help from Stiles, of course. Derek grins madly at the sight before him. He could never grow tired of this. He stares for a few seconds more before fetching the lube from the bedside table. He uses his right index finger to work Stiles' hole open, while using the other to lightly palm Stiles' cock - not enough to make him come, but enough to drive him crazy. _“Derek.”_ He pushes in another finger and works that for a while, Stiles swatting at the hand Derek's using to tease his cock. “Stop that. It's cruel.”

Derek leans down to kiss Stiles, then bites his bottom lip, intentionally brushing against Stiles' prostate so that he can feel Stiles gasp against his mouth. He sits back and works a third cold, wet finger into Stiles' hole, and he takes it easily. As he did the first time they had sex, Derek wonders if he's tried this before. And, as it did the first time, the image in his head makes him even harder. Stiles knows not to beg, because it's not what Derek wants. Derek doesn't want the begging, fiending Stiles - he wants the wordless, passionate Stiles. At this point, Stiles wonders if the second one even exists.

Derek pulls his fingers out with a pop, and before long, the pressure teasing his rim is replaced by Derek's head - lined up and ready for the order. Stiles nods and throws his head back, squeezing his eyes shut tight. The pressure doesn't burn or sting as much as the first time, which is to be expected. Before long, the slow ease of added pressure becomes torturous. He whimpers to Derek, “I can take it. It f-it feels g-good.” Derek then gives Stiles less time to adjust, and the groove he sets is perfect. Before long, Derek bottoms out.

He's closer to Stiles now, breathing heavily on his neck. He kisses the skin on his neck once, then nibbles on Stiles' ear, whispering softly, “I'll show you what I meant by mad, passionate love.” And he does.

He kisses Stiles' forehead, then begins his rhythmic, slow thrusts. He's face-to-face with Stiles, holding himself up by his forearms. He presses deep, breathtaking kisses to Stiles' lips, literally; he only stops to come up for air. He lets Stiles' tongue work into his mouth, curiously exploring whatever he can manage. “Derek....f- _faster._ ” Derek complies, his rhythm gaining tempo, the sounds of rushing blood and a mash-up of two indistinct heartbeats filling his ears.

Derek quickly takes hold of Stiles' neglected erection, tending to it intently. He fists it in time to his thrusts and Stiles can feel it in his entire body. His toes curl up and he bites back a grunt, blurting out, “D- _Der_ ” in warning, but in seconds he reaches his climax. He feels the warmth shoot onto his stomach, but he could really care less. Derek comes, one beat stray of perfect sync with Stiles' orgasm. The warmth overwhelms him - the warmth of his come on his stomach, the warmth of Derek on top of him, the warmth of Derek coming inside him. Derek pulls out and Stiles' stutters, “I...I -” but Derek silences him with a kiss. When he pulls back, a mad grin is splayed out across his face, like nothing he's ever seen on him before. “Thank you for coming...I mean, you know - thanks for being here.” Something strange happens to Stiles' token eloquence and wit during sex, and it really is pitiful.

Derek is hysterical, meanwhile wiping the sweat from his brow. “It was my pleasure.”

They lie still for several minutes, their heartbeats slowing along with their breathing. “Shit, Derek! What time is it?!”

“It's quarter to five, why -”

“Aren't we supposed to be meeting at your loft for a pack meeting tonight at 5:30?”  


“... Shit.”

“And I totally told Scott I'd pick him up because Allison's not coming tonight.”

“Okay,” He's up and throwing clothes on in seconds. “Well I have to go back to the loft to clean up a bit and order pizza.” He kisses Stiles with a grin on his face, his shirt only pulled on halfway. “I'll see you soon.” Before Stiles can even rise from the bed, Derek is out the window, the sound of his Camaro starting up coming from around the corner. From where he stands, leaning out the window, Stiles can hear Derek's loud and shitty music from nearly a block away pounding out of those poor abused car speakers.

“ _What a twat.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is only the second real sex scene I've ever written. Hope you enjoy.:D


	7. Stiles Sucks At Hiding His Secret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry I'm a day late, guys! I've been super busy.
> 
> I expanded more about pack meetings and their significance in the first work of this series, so you'd probably benefit from reading it.
> 
> Here's a short but funny one. I hope you guys enjoy!(:

The pack meeting is like any other that they've had as of late. They blabber on about preparing for new threats for a short amount of time, but ultimately just end up eating pizza and watching a movie.

When Stiles goes into the kitchen to get himself a glass of water, Peter is leaning up against the wall with his arms folded talking to Cora, who's sitting on the counter. “None for you, Stiles?” Peter motions to the smorgasbord of pizza boxes splayed out on the counter. Stiles puts one hand up and shakes his head as if to say, _'I'm good.'_ Peter turns his attention to Cora and mumbles in that impossibly snarky tone that only Peter can execute, “Follow me. This ought to be a treat.” He displays his infamous villainous grin before turning to walk into the living area with Cora in pursuit. Stiles stays in the kitchen, keeping Derek's beautiful ass in view. He's fumbling with the DVD player when Peter nearly prances into the room, gleefully announcing, “Ladies and gentlemen, I believe our alpha may have a new love interest!”

Stiles' heart sinks into his balls.

Peter begins clapping and grinning with faked enthusiasm. Cora, Isaac, and Ethan follow his lead, clapping and whistling, and Scott chucks both thumbs up and says, “Alright dude!”

Derek slowly turns around, his brow furrowed out of fury and embarrassment. “Peter, drop it.”

“So it's true, then? The reason you smell of hormones and arousal for the first time in a very long while - _you_ have a significant other?”

Scott interjects. “Finally! Your lack of a love life was verging on depressing, bro.” Scott stands up to give him a reassuring pat on the back. “Ignore him. Good for you, dude.” He pats his back again before heading into the kitchen for seconds. Stiles' quickly improvises, pulling his phone out to make it look like he was occupied - so he didn't seem like he was listening in.

Derek sighs. “I'm not... You can all just get it out of your little heads, because I'm not talking about it.”

 

* * *

 

The ride to Scott's house is silent. They listen to the radio and sing along to terrible top 40 songs, imitating whiny female pop star voices (Just picture that one for a second. Okay, carry on.). It isn't until they're a block away that Scott decides to vocalize his apparent concerns, in the best way that he knows how.

“Are you going to tell me why you reek of tears and KY?”

Stiles stares at the road, not knowing whether to laugh or shit his pants. “It's... _complicated_.”

He pulls up out front of Scott's house and waves to Scott's mother, who's peeking through the blinds of her bedroom window to see what the obnoxious rumbling noise was - the one coming from the 'piece-of-crap Jeep.' She waves back, flashing her usual sweet/confused what-the-hell-have-they-been-up-to smile.

“Bye, dude. Hope that situation gets, like, _less complicated._ ” Stiles chuckles as Scott climbs out of the Jeep, running one hand over his overgrown buzz cut.

Stiles looks down at the phone sitting in his lap and discovers a new text from Sourwolf. It reads: “Meet me at the diner downtown in 20. You know, the one with your favorite curly fries. ;)”

_He even makes fucking curly fries provocative. Oh god, I feel a fetish stewing..._ Stiles smirks and types out a reply. “You're buying, buster.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually kind of proud of my attempt at humor in this chapter. It's less lousy than usual.
> 
> I just really wanted to somehow work in Scott asking Stiles, "Are you going to tell me why you reek of tears and KY?"
> 
> I have no regrets.


	8. Stiles Likes His Curly Fries

As Stiles pulls into the rocky terrain of the diner parking lot, he sees Derek's black Camaro, meaning he's already inside. He parks and gathers himself, putting on his hoodie and taking deep breaths. There's something about Derek's presence that churns the inescapable nausea that rests in Stiles' stomach - an ill that has become somewhat of a constant as of late.

He wanders into the diner, with extreme fluorescent lights blinding his vision. He takes a few moments to blink away the haze and sees Derek at the booth in the far corner of the dining area. He's in his usual garb - dark-washed jeans that are a bit too tight, a black v-neck, and his ever-present worn leather jacket. He's hunched over his cup of coffee, staring down at the hypnotic stirring motion of the spoon in his hand. Stiles checks the time on his phone - 10:08pm. _Does he ever fucking sleep?_ On his way to the table, Stiles stops at the bar to place an order - curly fries and a diet Coke - with his regular waitress. She smiles at him sweetly, her overbearing use of lipstick and blush no longer phasing him.

He walks over and takes a seat at the booth across from Derek. Derek's head jerks up to look at Stiles, pretending he didn't see Stiles come in, but he knows Derek could hear every single one of his footsteps hitting the gravel, the cement, and the linoleum flooring as he approached. Stiles decides to leave it be, not feeling the need to grill Derek this time. Derek greets him with an exhausted smirk. The dull twisting of the muscles in Derek's expression no longer holds any meaning to either of them - they're well past the point of needless greetings and welcoming sentiments.

Or, as Stiles would much rather say, “Let's skip the bullshit.” Derek raises an eyebrow at him. “What is this about?” Stiles gestures in front of himself in the space between him and Derek.

“That's what I was hoping we could... discuss.”

“You know it's like 10 o'clock, right?”

“And?”

“Whatever. Get to the point, mister.” Stiles' foolproof idea to add trivial nicknames to make a conversation less tense always seems to work brilliantly.

Derek smirks and shakes his head, gazing back down into his coffee. “Well I want to know what you have to say about... _this_." He imitates Stiles' gesture between them. "You've been unusually quiet about your feelings.”

“Just the fact that you're the one initiating the conversation disturbs me, quite frankly.” Stiles pauses as the waitress brings over his order, permeating the air with her presence of overwhelming and cloying perfume. She walks away, exchanging no words with them, knowing they must want to talk in private. Stiles shoves some ffries into his mouth, sighing with delight from the taste. Derek motions to Stiles as if to say, _go on._ Stiles finishes chewing and swallows, taking a sip of his drink, and continues in a hushed tone, sounding aggravated, “Okay, so what do you want me to say? That I like you? That I want you in my bed more often? Huh? Th-that I haven't been able to stop thinking about you? That you seem to be the only person left on the _face_ of the _earth_ that can comfort me?” Stiles runs the fingers of his right hand through his overgrown buzz cut. Tears begin to well up behind his eyelids. He tries to ease the seriousness of the situation - per usual - with humor. He chuckles. “Th-That I've jerked off more times than I'd like to admit to the thought of you in your stupid tight pants and leather jacket looming over me?” He laughs. “ _Jesus,_ I'm so fucked.”

Derek keeps a straight face, staring intently into Stiles' eyes. He says, without faltering his tone, “I thought we went over this already. It's _Derek._ ” The small amount of tears that began to well up in Stiles' eyes drain, the tension of the situation relieved by Derek's surprisingly funny... _idiom? Was that what 'Ms. Blake' taught us? A reference only someone who was in the loop would understand? Yeah, that._ Derek bites his bottom lip and stare down into his coffee for the thousandth time, and, _fuck, he's so goddamn attractive. Mental image. Take this whole sight in for later viewing purposes, Stiles._ “In all seriousness, though...” _Of course it has to be serious. It's Derek, for Christ’s sake._ “I don't think it's safe for you to be, you know, getting... _involved_ with me." Stiles' heart shatters into a million pieces. _He's breaking it off?_  "I-I don't want you to get hurt. You've had enough heartbreak for one lifetime.” For a man of very few words, Derek has some very profound moments of insight.

"Are you - are you fucking kidding me?" Derek's eyes grow wide - he wasn't expecting that sort of reaction. "Seriously dude, you're an idiot." Derek sighs and leans back into the booth, closing his eyes. "I think you're more afraid of adding to your heaping ball of guilt you've been collecting from past relationships. I think you're afraid to hurt me because you're afraid of what it'll do to you."

"Stiles, that's really not -"

"Or maybe because you think _I'll_ hurt _you._ " Derek shakes his head, but before he can interject, Stiles continues. "Well I got news for you, buddy - you won't have to worry about how I'll react when my life becomes endangered and you have to tell me your secret. You won't have to worry about me possibly turning out to be a psychotic killer bitch." Derek cocks an eyebrow. "I'm not the people from your past. I won't be like any of them. I'm a dude, for one, which I'm not actually sure if you've ever...wait, have you ever even _been with a guy_ before?" 

Derek shakes his head. "No. Well, I mean, I've  _done stuff_ with a guy before. Twice. And I was wasted beyond all recognition both times."

"I thought werewolves, like,  _couldn't_ get drunk?"

"I'd had a _lot_ to drink. A. _Lot._ "

There's a silence. Stiles waits for something else on Derek's end, but realizes that he probably has to lead the conversation to get anything accomplished. He sits up and slaps both hands on his thighs. "Alrighty then. My point still stands, alright? Don't break off  _whatever this is_ just because you're afraid. Shit happens, dude. You can't live your life in fear of heartache, because that's not really living, you know?"

Derek shrugs unenthusiastically. "I just...  _okay._ _"_ Stiles raises his eyebrows. "Just... I need to know if you're... _serious_ or not." His eyes flicker back up to meet Stiles', which are lit up now out of joy.

“Uh, yeah, _duh,_ I'm serious. I'm totally serious. Serious as Allison when she says every other week that she's breaking up with Scott for good.” He laughs to himself. “Totally, 100% serious. I'm quite the catch. I mean, I'm fantastic at making breakfast and I have good taste in movies and, contrary to popular assumption, I can listen when someone has to talk. I mean - I...I could be good for you. _You_ could be good for _me._ ”

“I'm _far_ from good, Stiles. Get that stupid idea out of your head before I have to force it out of it via your steering wheel. Sound familiar?” _He. Did. Not. Another idiom. Huh.  
_

“Oh, shut up. Stop being such a Sourwolf.”

“And would you stop calling me that?”

“Never. Especially now that I know it annoys you.” He grins at Derek.

Derek rolls his eyes. “A lot of things annoy me." He folds his arms. "So is that it? We're going to try to figure this out?”

Stiles mock-contemplates for a moment, tapping a finger on his chin, squinting, and looking up at the ceiling. “I _guess_. I mean, only if there's more crazy, ravenous sex involved.”

“I can definitely make that happen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'm stumped on which direction my next work in the series should go. We'll see!  
> Another (hopefully) funny chapter. How do you guys like it so far? One chapter left!:(


	9. Stiles Grows A Pair

Several (thankfully) uneventful days pass before Stiles gets a chance to talk to Scott. Scott promised to keep Thursday free for Stiles this week - no Allison, no practice, no training, no pack bullshit - just him and Stiles alone to talk. It's a chilly afternoon, and Stiles sits at his desk, anxiously twiddling his thumbs and staring down at the fragile leather-bound book that Deaton gifted to him, which sits smack in the middle of the clutter on his desk. He's been trying so hard to formulate what exactly he wants to write. He's been staring at the damn thing for days, considering every new discovery over the past few years. He has so many ideas about what he'd like to write down, but nothing he can think of seems significant enough to be written on the first page, because somehow, it holds some significance to him. _What,_ he wonders, _is the most essential, and ultimately the most paramount thing I've come to realize?_

He's snapped out of his trance when he hears the muffled sound of his ringtone buried somewhere in his bed. He sees the time - 3:47pm - _he's over 45 minutes late._ He answers the call, “This had better be good.”

“Yeah, uh, I can't come over today. I failed a test in economics, and Finnstock said I could make it up tomorrow before school, and Allison told me she'd come over and help me cram.” Scott can almost hear Stiles roll his eyes one the other end of the line. “You know, you could totally come over too, and we -”

“I'll pass. Sorry, I really don't feel like being the third wheel with you two. Not anymore.”

“Dude, we're just studying! We're not even -”

“Scott - when in your _life_ have you _ever_ actually _studied_?” There is a pause. He's trying to think of something redeeming to say, but Stiles answers for him. “Exactly. I get it, man, sexytimes before brotimes.”

“I'm sorry, bro.”

“But you're _not_ sorry. If you were sorry, you would've asked me to help you study before you asked her. Or you would've blown off 'studying' anyway, because you knew I needed to talk to you.”

“I-I'm -” He huffs into the receiver. “Whatever, Stiles. I know you think we're like soulmates or something, but you know, there's room for other people in my life too.”

“No, Scott. You just _make_ room for them by pushing _me_ out.”

“Things change, Stiles. People change. _I_ changed. It's life, dude.'

Stiles can feel himself on the brink of tears. “That's what you've always said, you know - friends for _life_.”

“Grow up, Stiles.” Stiles can't take the arguing anymore - he hangs up before he says something unforgivable and lies face-down on his bed, burying his face in the pillow to muffle his sobs. He's now on the outs with the only two people that have remained constant his entire life. And now, he's determined to try to fix that, any way that he can.

 

* * *

 

Stiles waits anxiously until his father arrives home at 5:30pm, per usual for a weekday. When the Sheriff walks in, there is a hot meal waiting for him, just off the stove onto serving plates on the table. Stiles is sitting on the counter, and flashes a huge smile when his dad walks in the kitchen.

They eat in silence as Stiles still struggles to formulate what exactly he wants to say. He fiddles with his fork, playing with the food on his plate. He's too nervous to eat. His father periodically looks up from his plate to raise an eyebrow in Stiles' direction, but Stiles just keeps his head down. They're about 10 minutes into the meal when his father finally asks, “So are you going to tell me why you've suddenly taken up cooking again? And why you haven't spoken a word to me since we sat down?”

Stiles drops his fork, unintentionally, onto his plate. He puts both elbows on the table and sighs, burying his face in his hands. He begins, speaking muffled words into his hands. “I-I wanted to try to explain myself to you.” His moves his hands to fold his arms on the table, looking in every direction but his father's. “I've been a shit son, I know. You deserve to know why I've been distant and weird lately, so...I'm just - I'm trying.” His father stops mid-chew, his eyebrows fixed in their constant raised state whenever he has a conversation with his son. Stiles opens his mouth to talk about a dozen times before they finish eating, each time deciding the sentence he'd picked wouldn't work out the way he wanted. His father cleared the table, putting the dishes into the sink, and Stiles finally says, “Can we talk in the living room?” It wasn't really a question – Stiles was already heading out of the kitchen. The Sheriff stands still for a moment, questioning the order, but soon follows his son into the living area. He takes a seat on the couch across from Stiles and the armchair - their usual seating arrangement. “I...okay, I'll start with the basics. Please just listen before you say _anything._ I'll try to explain this the best I can.”

“You've always had a way with words, son."

“Let's hope that's enough.” Stiles sighs and rubs both hands over his face, putting pressure to his tired eyes and feeling the heat radiating from his skin. “Okay. Here goes nothing.” He sighs, then stays silent. His father motions for him to spit it out, so he does. He then begins to ramble on quickly like he does whenever he's nervous: “So it all started when Scott got a girlfriend, plus a new group of friends. I know I don't own him or anything, but they ended up changing him, like, a _lot_ , and he's too cool for me now. We haven't hung out in _months_ without his girlfriend or his other friends being around, and today he was supposed to come over so we could talk but blew me off to be with freaking Allison. He said he has to study, which is bullshit, because he never studies. We both know what _studying_ means. And that's not the first time it's happened, where he blew me off. We got in an argument over the phone and he told me that it's just life and I kind of lost it, and he told me to grow up, which is kind of hypocritical, and I hung up on him, and....and -”

His father places a hand on his knee, shushing him and saying softly, “It's alright, kid. Slow down. So you and Scott grew apart? Is that it? Because honestly, I was expecting much, _much -_ ”

“No,” he sniffles hard and wipes the tears from his face on his sleeve. “That's not it.”

“Oh, uh – right. Awesome.”

“I've been... _seeing_ someone.” His father smirks, knowing exactly the extent of heartache that a teenage romance can cause. “But, dad, if you could just _listen_ and _not interrupt_ for like, one _freaking_ minute, you'll understand.... hopefully.”

“Stiles, you know I'm here for -”

“Shh! That wasn't even ten seconds! One minute I ask of you - no interruptions, no matter what. Okay? Just bear with me.” His father nods. He raises his left hand, and his right index finger draws an _X_ over his heart. Stiles smiles solemnly, mirroring his father's pained expression. “Okay...okay, good. So, uhm, I said that I've been seeing someone. I've been... I've b-been -” He exhales hard and closes his eyes, attempting to calm his nerves, but ultimately prolongs the suspense. “I've been seeing a... a _guy._ ” His father furrows his brow and sits back on the couch, but doesn't say a word, keeping his promise to stay silent. “And _he_ has helped me through a lot of bad stuff that I can't talk to anyone else about – no, dad, not even to you. He's...he makes me feel... _good._ He makes me happy, dad.” Stiles sighs and stuffs his face in his palm, using the other to motion to his father that he's permitted to speak again.

His father sits forward and inflects the tone he uses when he's perplexed with a case, or when he's trying to break bad news to someone. “Stiles, I don't think I understand what you're saying. I mean, in the past few months, you've been so _far_ from happy.” He exhales deeply. “What is this, a...a cry for help or something? Is that what it is? Because Stiles, you can just tell me if -”

Stiles clenches his fists; fury, frustration, and grief echo through his whole body. He grits his teeth and tears pour down his face. “Jesus, Dad, will you just _listen?_ I'm trying -” he gulps, more tears pouring down his face. “I'm trying to explain what's going on with me, something you've been trying to figure out for a while, and you're shooting me down because what I'm telling you is something you don't want to hear!” He calms himself and his voice loses its piercing tone, replacing the grit with a painful, shrill sound of sorrow. “With everything we've been through together, with every genuine freaking emotion you've witnessed me show, how do you still find it so hard to believe me? _Look_ at me, dad! _Look_ at my _face!_ How could you possibly look me dead in the eye and say that I'm not telling the truth?”

Stiles' father has never been good with words. His son always did the talking, the communication for them. Stiles wrote the birthday cards and the letters 'to whom it may concern.' So his father communicates his feelings to his son the best way he knows how: by showing him. He moves to kneel in front of his son, taking hold of both of his biceps with a firm grip. He stares into his son's eyes for a long moment, communicating a sort of tacit response, saying, “ _Yes, son, I believe you. As furious as I may become, no matter what you tell me, you are my son - and I will always love you._ ” Stiles throws his arms around his father's neck. He returns the hug, squeezing him gently, with one hand on the small of his back and the other holding the nape of his neck, directing his son's audible sobs into the shoulder of his jacket. After what seems like hours, Stiles lets go. His father returns to his seat and closes his eyes, massaging the lines on his forehead – lines caused purely by raising his eyebrows at his son so often. Something clicks in his mind: his constant distrust and disbelieving of whatever Stiles tries to tell him is so extensive that it is quite literally _displayed on his face._ Feeling the lines on his forehead causes him to realize that as many times as he's assured Stiles that he'd always be there for him, he'd never actually listened when Stiles came to him for guidance. It's entirely his fault. He sits back into the sofa and states plainly, “I want to meet this boy over dinner.”

Stiles wipes the wetness from his face. “It-it's not really anything serious, like, at _all_ yet. I'm not even sure if this is going anywhere, but I swear to you, if I feel at any point that this may become something serious, I would like you to meet him.” He takes hold of his father's forearm. “But please, can you just wait for that - just, can you wait until I'm ready?”

The Sheriff closes his eyes and replies, “You're asking a lot of me today, son.”

“I-I know, dad, but I swear -”

Sheriff takes one of his son's hands in both of his, squeezing softly. “I will wait until you're ready. I won't insist, I promise.” His tone shifts sharply from sincere to something much more stern and serious. “But if this boy hurts you, I swear to you - I will rip every one single of his appendages off with my bare hands.”

Coming from anyone else, Stiles would think that sounded suggestive.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, though his heart is warmed, Stiles finds himself laying in bed unable to sleep. He can't stop thinking; he can't stop thinking about Derek, about his Dad, about Scott, about Derek again (this time in a much less innocent way), about the homework he forgot to do, about how badly he wants to drive to the diner just for some god damn curly fries, about his Dad finding out who he's seeing, about becoming an emissary...

Stiles throws his covers off and rolls out of bed, scrambling to turn on the small light over his desk. The dim glow shows Stiles' desk, cluttered beyond recognition, save for the space around the leather-bound book in the middle of the tabletop. He fumbles for a pen – _there has to be one somewhere... got it!_ \- and opens the front cover, lingering for a moment before skipping past the first page. He begins scribbling onto the second page.

 

* * *

 

_I don't think anything I've learned will ever be important enough to belong on the first page._  
 _Maybe it's because I'm indecisive. Maybe it's because it's true._  
 _Maybe it's because the most important thing to know hasn't been discovered yet._

_But I do believe that a few things I've learned are important enough to tie for second place.  
They're things I think are worth reminding myself._

_#1. Werewolves are real._

_#2. Magic is real._

_#3. Love is real._

_#4. Sarcasm and wit can't heal all wounds._

_#5. Always keep a bat._

_#6. She's not coming back. She's never coming back._

_#7. Life isn't going to be the way we plan it to be. It's not going to be like: “breakfast, school, lunch, school, homework, dinner, sleep, repeat.” It's more like: “I overslept and don't have time for breakfast, I failed my chem test, there wasn't anywhere to sit at lunch so I sat alone outside, my drugs are wearing off and I fell asleep last period, I'd rather stab myself in the face with a fork than do English homework, Dad's working late tonight, so no family dinner, I did mindless shit until the wee hours of the morning and didn't fall asleep until 4:30 am, repeat.”_

_#8. Friends blow you off for other people. You will be randomly ambushed by the latest Big Bad. The Jeep will stall out. Dad will work late and eat unhealthy food. People die, or they graduate and move away (it's the same thing – either way, you'll never see them again, except for in photographs, where the people stop for just a moment to smile, whether they're happy or not, to capture that fabricated moment forever). You'll feel useless being human in a pack of werewolves._

_Shit happens. The most you can do is let it happen. Find better friends. Shake off the dirt from the battle and wear your war wounds with pride. Restart the Jeep, or get out and walk. Roll your eyes and accept the fact that Dad won't be home for dinner. Shake hands at the viewings; pay your respects to their families. Hug the kids in their caps and gowns, holding in their hearts huge, unrealistic plans for the future, and say, “we should definitely stay in touch,” even if you don't want to. Remind yourself that even though your eyes don't glow, and you don't sprout muttonchops in the blink of an eye, you're still important._

_You live the life of no other – the trials and hardships of a one Stiles Stilinski: sarcastic, sexually confused teenage druid-in-training, with a heart of gold and wit of steel. You're the human amongst beasts – the boy who runs with wolves. And don't you ever even dare to think that who you are isn't absolutely incredible._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter guys, agh!
> 
> Writing this one made me cry, namely toward the end. THE FEELS. ALL OF THEM. 
> 
> I'm still trying to formulate exactly what I want to write about in the next work of the series, but I have a feeling it's going to be a good one. I have a few ideas, and I'm so excited to start writing the next work. If I should even write another one...
> 
> So - thoughts?
> 
> Comments/Kudos/Etcetera would be greatly appreciated! I love you all!

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading! Please leave comments/kudos/whathaveyou - it helps me figure out what I did well and what I should improve on. 
> 
> Your input is very much appreciated!
> 
> Update (7-26-14): HOLY SHIT YOU GUYS. I cannot believe how much traffic this series has gotten! Seriously, this is much more well-received than I initially expected it to be. I love you all.
> 
> Also, I show all of your comments to my mom. She knows it's TW fanfiction, but I haven't let her read it. Regardless, she's very proud of me.


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